


Some Kind Of Company

by DisasterJones



Series: New Beginnings [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Campaign 02 (Critical Role), Dreams and Nightmares, First Meetings, Gen, Mind Control, Prison, pre-session 0
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 00:16:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13692828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisasterJones/pseuds/DisasterJones
Summary: It wasn’t that he hadn’t gotten much accomplished - he had - but the ritual was becoming more and more unstable with each use. He’s an experienced practitioner of the arcane arts, but he’s not immortal, and he’s certainly no fool. Hopefully the new one would allow for a better bargain and a little more… wiggle room.





	Some Kind Of Company

**Author's Note:**

> part 1 [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13581261)

In the recesses of a dank underground chamber, dark but for an oil lantern hanging from the ceiling, the shrouded form of Drayvon Kelstern stands upon a stone dias. Built like a horse and two heads taller than any man in town, the frame of him alone is an intimidating sight, his silhouette not unlike that of a coffin.

Chiseled into the floor beneath his feet is a symbol composed of interlocking rings, each with a curved spike on opposing ends. With arms splayed out over both halves of the inscription, he chants under his breath, his words falling fast and erratic, the intonations reverberating like a dozen voices in harmony. Beneath the cloak hood, his eyes sparkle with an intense violet energy, face falling slack as he finishes the incantation. The glyph flares, the left half surging with a red hot energy that crackles and sparks towards his fingertips. The right half of the glyph smolders, inky black with flecks of brimstone and ash fluttering into the air.

As the magical tether connects, his swirling violet eyes darken and char, the sclera turning to burnt coal, leaving the iris a vivid yellow-orange.

Through the goblin’s eyes, The Master watches the foolish upstart succumb to her blunted blow. Bloody and unconscious, his limp form tips backward into the cart bed. The axle groans in protest with his impact, prompting an unsettled whinny from the horse. Surveilling the landscape, the immediate area seems to be relatively devoid of life. Behind lay the dense forest running parallel with the road back to town. The path ahead is a long stretch of plains and farmland dotted with ancient drooping trees, heavily encumbered by thick gnarled branches that sag under the weight of their overgrown fur-like foliage. A few quaint cottages and sparse farms pepper the surrounding countryside, too far from the road for anything of detail to be noticable.

  
There’s a tug at his consciousness, a flickering sensation that calls for new instruction. _What now?_

“Return to me, and bring him with you,” he commands wordlessly, his body profoundly still above the burning glyph in the dark chamber.

  
Faint beads of sweat tickle the backs of his knees and form at his nape, and he suddenly becomes aware of the uncomfortable level of heat surrounding his physical form. He knows he’s running out of time, and if he’s not careful, he could lose the tether. Or worse.

He feels her acknowledgement as she turns, facing the front of the carriage. In the corner of her peripheral vision, he can make out the old woman on the ground beside the wagon, dagger still lodged in her throat. Her husband, seated partially upright in the carriage, has a deep seeping redness spreading over his back.

Reaching out with mottled green arms and slender hands, she grasps the old man’s tunic, forcing him sideways over the edge of the seat. Not enough yet to remove him, she hoists her leg up and pushes against his ribcage, straining to shift his weight. With a grunt, she makes a final shove. Gravity does the rest, sending the man to the dirt below. Settling herself in his place at the front of the cart, she snaps the reigns, angling the horse back towards the town, course set for the Kelstern manor.  
  


With a heaving sigh, Drayvon jerks his head back and pulls himself away from the glyph, nearly losing his footing as he steps off the raised platform. The light emanating from the dais burns like a star, harsh daggers of shadows jumping off every surface, thrown wild by the focused power of the glyph. A loud sizzling crackle emanates from the markings for a moment, igniting in flame once more. The fire screams across the surface of the glyph like flashpaper, and just as quickly, the light flickers out like dying embers on the wind.

Slightly breathless, he rights himself, adjusting his cloak and straightening his waistcoat tersely. Smoothing down his midnight hair, he departs the chamber, marching determinedly through the halls to the kitchen. He glowers and grumbles to himself, absentmindedly spooning mounds of an unidentifiable slop into a few small wooden bowls. It wasn’t that he hadn’t gotten much accomplished - he had - but the ritual was becoming more and more unstable with each use. He’s an experienced practitioner of the arcane arts, but he’s not immortal, and he’s certainly no fool. Hopefully the new one would allow for a better bargain and a little more… wiggle room.

* * *

  
The leaning, distorted image of a looming tower fills Caleb’s vision as he finds himself dashing inside. The halls don’t look the way he remembers and all the faceless bodies talk in the gentle turning of pages and the scribbling of quills. He picks up a book from a shelf and opens it, but the pages are blank; he tosses the book aside onto the… pile? How long had he been here? Plucking empty tomes from the shelf in search of something he can’t quite give a name to, even though it’s flitting about at the front of his skull, slipping through his mental snare.

Sudden darkness, urgency, he must escape. He twists and turns and seems to take the same corner multiple times, narrowly missing the faceless ones, closer and closer to capture each time. Twisting the knob on a door that appears adjacent to him, he flings himself into the room. Inside, he meets a dimly lit private library, with shelves like mountainous mouths that swallow the walls with their expanse, jagged teeth of disordered tomes and scrolls littering each one. Frumpkin purrs in his ear. It is too loud. It is not purring. It is the sound of whirling flame shooting past his head. It is the sound of shelves igniting around him. It is the sound of Frumpkin’s fading cry as he jumps in front of the bolt of flame. The outside comes fast and the haunting green eyes of the attacker get farther away, until they fall out of sight entirely. The walls pass quickly, too quickly for running, he’s speeding through the air, flying by the burning tower and the terrified screams of unsuspecting townsfolk. The wreckage smolders, smoke rising like a great fat snake writhing and curling through the sky. More faceless bodies line the street. They sound like burning wood.

  
  
Caleb’s eyes snap open and he gasps, catching a bit of spit in the back of his throat. After a few coughs and sputters, he blinks away the tears collecting at the corners of his eyes, lifting a hand to his face to clear them away and massage the bridge of his nose. Absently scratching at his beard, he looks around to find himself in a corner cell in some makeshift prison. Brick walls and a stone floor tell him it’s not a proper dungeon; if it were, the masonry would be different, and there’d be more cells than this. He can make out three others from where he’s sitting, and from the layout he can see, he deduces there’s likely only two or three more beside that in this space. Who’s to say any of them are even occupied? What if he’s the only one?

Glancing about, he notes the dirty pile of hay he assumes to be intended for sleeping, but it appears thoroughly damp and questionably dark. He decides it’s likely best to rest on the floor or propped against the wall. The chamber pot next to the hay has a thin layer of some previous occupant’s remains, prompting his face to rapidly contort between the full range of disgusted expressions before resting on a permanent scowl. Leaning forward with a hesitant leg, he gently kicks it aside, pushing it further away and hopefully taking the deeply unpleasant scent with it. In his shuffling, he nearly kicks over a bowl of…. Something. _Is…. is this... supposed to be edible?_

He examines the dish with disdain, an assortment of minced meat and gristle mashed with an impostor of a “vegetable.” It looks like what one would expect to see caked and reeking in the hay outside a tavern. Or in the questionable bit of hay provided to him as a sleeping arrangement, as it were. The sight alone is enough to make his stomach turn, but the smell is unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. And he hasn’t been able to bathe in months. He should know a thing or two about foul odors.

Skepticism tickles at his nape, and he reaches an unsteady hand out, fingers twisting through the air and making invisible shapes as he mutters under his breath.

  
From the other side of the cell wall, a feminine raspy squawk of a voice warns, “Don’t eat that. S’not good for ya.”

  
Caleb’s incantation finishes, to his surprise revealing no magical properties about the abomination of a meal. Surely something that wretched can’t be organically crafted? Or safe to consume, for that matter?

Finally, the realization hits him - there’s another presence, here. Young girl. Another prisoner who knows he’s here. Who maybe knows something about this place. Enough at least to advise against the food. How long has she been here? How long has _he_ been here?

  
“....thank you,” he whispers unevenly, doubting the decision to speak even as the words leave his mouth. What if this is a trick?

“For one, it tastes just awful, but also it usually has some kinda’ poison or som’n in it, some what makes you sleepy and can’t remember things good,” the raspy voice continues.  There’s a hint of exhaustion and frustration as she speaks, with which he deeply empathizes.

  
He finds himself only grunting in response, too guarded to allow the chance to be manipulated, but in truth, also because he doesn’t know what to say. He racks his mind for solutions to his predicament, feeling more and more hopeless with every passing moment.

  
“Suppose you’ll probably be taken for the branding soon,” she says wearily, her voice squeaking uncomfortably. “All the new ones go after their first meal. Maybe s’what the sleep stuff’s for? Keep you out, you know?” She makes a creaking noise with her throat, something that perhaps is supposed to register like a snore, but he has trouble making it out. “So’s you don’t wake up in the middle and make things difficult.” Finally, she huffs, “Sure ain’t help me none though, did it? Seared me like a common cow, he did. How’s anybody supposed to sleep through that?”

  
Caleb listens in horrified awe, eyes saucer-wide as clammy tendrils of fear crawl up his spine. She cackles in spite of herself, a response he finds strange, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward regardless. He’s never been one to cope with humor, more so relentless stress and fatigue, but this he doesn’t mind so much.

  
“How… long? Have you been here?” he asks, grimacing to himself. It’s scary, the vulnerability of conversation, especially with faceless strangers, but also deeply impersonal while sequestered behind walls.

   
A battle of epic proportions rages in Caleb’s mind, his need for mortal compassion grappling with his fear of the unknown and instinct to survive at all cost. Unsure if it’s wise to indulge the disembodied voice, but unable to stop himself, he leans earnestly against the cell wall nearest the source.

It’s surprisingly silent, but for the occasional skitter of rodent paws or whistle of the wind through the unseen halls connected to the prison. It seems for a time she isn’t interested in answering, but he can’t bring himself to pry. He rests his head against the wall, the porous surface cool and unforgiving. A soft noise catches his attention, a gentle sniffle.

  
“......I don’t know.”

“Oh.”

“I thought... I had it in me head... I could take the place for some valuables, y’know? Pawn ‘em and dress ‘em up good and get some decent coin, buy my way out the slums. Maybe.. Maybe find some kind of company... you know?” Her voice trails in and out, the weight of it all gradually dragging her pitch and her volume lower and lower.

 “I... I haven’t, you know, I haven’t even really seen him.” Another sniffle. “I mean, I saw his eyes once. Like a bright green. Like what you see them fancy minstrel types in. But… I got no memory of his face. He’s.. He’s like a shadow. A shadow that takes my mind away.” Her voice breaks and she begins to sob, her cries muffling softly.

   
Caleb’s ice-locked heart begins to crack and warm at the center. Instinctively he reaches out a hand, an offer of consolation, but his fingers meet empty air, unseen. He falters, lowering his arm to rest on his lap. With a somber gaze, he stares at the wall in the place where he approximates her voice, somewhat gracious for the barrier, at the same time desperately wishing he could tear it down and embrace her. To not be alone. To not let her feel so alone.

  
“My name is Caleb. Caleb Widogast.”

  
There is a long silence, interrupted only by the occasional sniffle or deep rattling breath, seemingly collecting herself. Following that, there is a brief period of indeterminate noises and quiet scuffling that Caleb can only barely make out from the other side of the wall. Eventually, something prods his hand resting on the floor. Upon looking down, he sees a tiny scrap of paper wrapped around the edge of some kind of utensil, but it doesn’t seem to fit all the way through the gap.

Propping himself up against the wall, he unfurls the paper and studies it. It doesn’t appear to be Common, but there are familiar characters recognizably adjacent to the script he learned in his early childhood lessons. There are remarkably similar qualities to his native Zemnian in some structural appearance, but he doubts any of it translates as such.

  
“I don’t… Don’t really have a name. In your tongue, I mean,” she murmurs almost apologetically, her words quiet and uncertain. “That’s what my kin called me.”

  
Quirking an eyebrow, he twists the paper around, looking for patterns and shapes in the scrawl. His keen eye pulls a few what almost could be Zemnian letters from the mix, arranging them in his mind and discarding the cumbersome ones. A name clicks into place.

  
“Nott?”

“.......hm.”

“Ah? Is that bad? That isn’t- Ah.. That isn’t an, er, offense, is it-” Caleb starts, turning to face the wall, hands up in apology to rescind his perceived error.

“What? No, no, it’s not that. No. That’s.. That’s not what they called me, or at least, that’s not what it sounds like when they talk about me. It’s… It’s much meaner, when they talk about me.” There’s another long pause. “Just… Just ‘Nott’?”

“ _Ja_ , I mean, yes, I mean no offense by it, and it does not, er, ‘mean anything’ more, although I do realize it sounds like another word in Common, ‘not,’ so _ja_ I could see the confusion. But I just thought some of what was written here,” he regards the paper in his hand again, nodding as he thumbs over the scribbles, “looked much like my native tongue, and I transcribed it from that.”

“...I like it better than what they used to call me,” she mumbles, so quiet Caleb barely catches it. “Then... Then my name’s Nott.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Nott,” he says warmly, gripping tight the small scrap of paper like a lifeline, clutching it fondly like he would her hand, were they capable. "We will make it out of here, I promise you."

**Author's Note:**

> part 3 coming soon (will update when complete)


End file.
